[Order vs Chaos] SANCTUARY - Printable Version

Wulfsige's magic flickered and flared--innate to him as it was not to Wilder--and its strength seemed to trigger some sort of flash. The magic cascaded outward, touching all those close by and as it did, they would intrinsically understand it. Even, if they so chose, learn to use it themselves.

Seconds later, the clicking sound echoed through the little clearing as a Hive defender--a Praetor--reached the entrance. It paused, peering around the corner, an immense insectoid head with massive jaws peering from six feet up. Its glassy carapace seemed to writhe with white threads. Another paced up alongside it, and both tilted their heads, studying those taking refuge within with their glinting compound eyes. Shearing, mantis-like forelimbs curled, their antennae twitching as they took in the sight before them--likely waiting for their orders from their Queen. One looked down at Khloros, flailing on the ground hooves-up just before it, and tensed. The other's gaze slid to Aethereal--and locked there.

The Gembounds had seconds to act before the Praetors did--though whether they would prove violent or not was as yet unknown.

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In a moment that seemed to bring time to a standstill, Wulfsige would experience the gentle and soft presence of the centaur who spoke in his dreams; the vision of things around him blurred and sound distorted into static silence, hanging around him like whispers.

"This one," came the wisdom, and Oliver's figure had sharpened into focus. "See how it is different? Look at this one." A glimmer of purple and gold stardust emanated from Oliver, and slowly, the other gembounds came back into focus. "Look at them, now," it directed. "See how they are similar." Even though they were born of the Skystone's magic and were Natural Order, the shimmering was on them too, though faint.

"AUTONOMY." It was not spoken any louder than the other words, but it came with weight the other words had not held. And as if he had always known it, Wulfsige was imparted with the knowledge that the gembounds' magic was AUTONOMOUS, even though they were born of NATURAL ORDER. "The elements are Autonomous. They cannot be without."

"But look at you," said the voice, and Wulfsige saw himself, paused in time. "And look at this one." Khloros's figure was next to him. They were sharper than the other figures, different, clear; like the pure sound of ringing crystal. "Only Natural."

The vision panned back, and all of the gembounds were visible. Corrupted were still CHAOS, and the Ordered were still ORDER; but now the difference of pure NATURAL ORDER and that which was AUTONOMOUS was inherent to Wulfsige.

"Be safe."

Like the sharp inhale after holding one's breath, Wulfsige's mind was thrust back into present time.

Shock turned her mind blank for a moment as the first Praetor rounded the corner. So it is Mother. She didn't quite know what to feel. Betrayal? Fear? Anger? Maybe relief, that they were finally face-to-face. Whatever schemes and plans lay hidden, it was time to strip away confusion and lay the truth out in front of them.

She tensed as the Praetor, its intentions still yet ambiguous, set its eyes on Khloros. She wanted to step forward, stretch her wings out in front of the horse and shield him, but he was too far. The Praetor could reach him long before she did. The second Praetor (of course, they always came in pairs, didn't they?) looked straight at her.

Did Mother remember her? Would she try to parley? Or immediately destroy her?

These siblings could not speak. They never did. But now Aethereal had magic that allowed her to reach people mind-to-mind, and it wasn't the corrupted kind either. Good, because she somehow had a feeling Mother wouldn't appreciate a chaotic spell in her face. She reached out--and immediately froze as all her senses deadened. It was silence so complete that she could not hear her own heartbeat or feel the flow of air against her fur. Could not even feel through Scars. It was like Corruption's hallucinations had descended on her again, but instead of experiencing alien wars she experienced nothing.

She forced herself to be calm. Not to panic, or make any sudden movements. "Mother," she spoke, or thought she did. Hoped she did. She couldn't hear her own voice. "Please, let's not fight. Wait just a second. I have magic--we can speak mind-to-mind, just give me a minute to get the magic to work right. Please!" Her words rushed, fell over each other, came out too loud for the space inside the bone fortresses. She only realized at the tail end of her sentence, as her senses began to return and she felt Scars's mingled panic and relief pulsing along their familiar link.

The face of the Hive is unfamiliar to Tourmaline. Pale white Praetors looking nothing like the chromatic band of misfits taking shelter in the fortress. Even if their gazes don't linger on her at all, she feels the icey chill all the same.

She looks to Teosar for some sort of guidance, but even so he probably already has enough he's dealing with. Looking back up at the Praetors, Tourmaline felt so helplessly small. Every moment they don't attack she dreads the next.

Even so, she can sense it too. The same way Wulfsiege and Wilder did, these insectoid creatures were beasts of Order, whether she knew what that was or not.

Oliver glanced up, and then stood, blinking. The sudden fear of what was rounding the corner--what were those things? He'd been so focused on a strange idea of long-term survival... Why? Where did that come from?
Distressing thoughts in strange patterns flashed through his mind. He'd only been wanting to help. But why-...

He shook himself. Pushed forward, gently nudging the coyote pup aside and heading for the Praetors. A glance toward Aethereal, hearing her words, told him that perhaps they weren't... enemies. Not friends--not given her pleading tone. But not enemies.

"Please leave," he pleaded. His voice was soft. He was considering his magic, but--what did he have..? He could only get in front of some of them, hope that if these creatures attacked they'd hit him first.

That strange wash of magic, too-... He hesitated, feeling it resonate with his stone, and then sent it back out as though he were some sort of amplifying tower for its signal. And he felt its response.

They were... different, than those around him. Most of these creatures held a magic not too dissimilar from his own--varying, and he knew too little to recognize any real differences, let alone what they meant, as Wulfsige could. But-...

Aethereal, he realized suddenly, resonated with something static and black, dripping and snarling in his mind. And these-... These were a different sort of static. A white noise, empty and repetitive, a marching song to a rhythmic, perfect beat. It was like pale and glowing fractals in his mind, where Aethereal's was the threat of an infinite yawning hole.

...Strange, was his only thought. And his--his own. It was strange, too, but not entirely so. But did that matter now? Those creatures--were they here to attack those in hiding..?

"Please leave. We aren't here to fight." It was all he could suggest. All that he could plead.

The two big white bug-things were scarily large, but then, so were some of the Gembounds in here on their side. (Were these 'sides?') She shrank back, looking amongst those present--and the feathered dog-thing had moved past her.

She pulled away, slinking again--tail tucked--to the back of the alcove, trying to look unobtrusive. The black horse nearly trampled her, hooves cascading over rock--and Coyote bolted, scrambling into a pile of bones that clattered at her strike. There she cowered, staring wide-eyed.

The magic that had struck her, too--as it did with Oliver--resonated back out. She learned it--felt it--and this sudden new influx of information via sensation kept her rapt, afraid, and silent.

Magic--she could see it. Sense it, anyway--and she didn't know what any of it meant. The stolid march of Order, the chaotic thrash of Corruption, the thrum of natural magic all around her... what had happened? Why could she sense this, now..?

She was lost, too, to the chaos of the situation--the churning violence, the swiftly changing circumstances all around her. Maybe if Coyote hid here... maybe if she stayed small, and quiet... none of it would look her way.

Here the Hive comes.

Astéri has never been fond of insects. Once, he rescued a friend from a swarming, hungry tide of green-shelled beetles before they could swarm over the two of them, too. That memory sticks with him—the scuttling legs, the snapping mandibles, now brought into oversize as he stares down the two white bugs that stand before their hastily built sanctuary.

Can the Hive be bargained with? Can safety be bought with words? The others are trying, trying, but Astéri doesn't think so—and one of them, his magic having failed them, is right there, out in the open, defenseless.

If anyone here has to get hurt, it'll be him.

Adrenaline brings an ethereal kind of urgency to him, panic held back only by the dam of having to be present, here and now. With soft paws he lopes up to where another has her bat wings held wide, angling his body sideways as he stares the Praetors down with three sets of fiery eyes. Internally he pulls on unfamiliar gifted magic, wondering if the 'shield' the Wishing Stone had granted him would protect against insects so large and vicious.

He can't bring himself to promise peace. It would be a lie. "I will protect them," is what he says instead. This is a promise he can keep—no matter the cost.

Pleas for peace, promises to defend, they all fell on deaf ears of wild, untamed panic. There was a crunch, one that sounded visceral and agonizing. It snapped Raoshar's attention into focus, and they turned toward the entrance where the insect-creatures had entered.

The injury was obvious, though how damaging it was-- it was hard to tell on something that did not bleed. The little puffball scrambled forward, nearly running into Asteri's flank in an attempt to get closer.

He reached out a forepaw, spreading his wings in mimicry of the protective stance that Relic took. His wings were still small, barely covered in down, unable to actually defend anything.

Part of him understood intrinsically that he was not ready to protect anything or anyone. There was something he was capable of, however, and his magic reached out toward the being of Order: an offering of... perhaps not peace, but it was kindness.

Mercy.

A sharp, biting pain flared in his chest, and the little one gasped with the sudden agony, stumbling to the ground. His vision blurred, but he kicked his feet, squirming to wiggle his way under Asteri. A hot white anger burned through his core, one that rebelled against his failure. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

"I-- I wanted to help," his voice fluttered.